


shoreline

by bibliocratic



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Martin Blackwood, Coming Out, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Internalized Acephobia, Male-Female Friendship, Martin Blackwood Being Allowed To Have Nice Things, Minor Tim/Sasha, Season 1 OG Archive Crew, male-male friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24880240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliocratic/pseuds/bibliocratic
Summary: “Martin," Tim says kindly, tipsily, only mildly slurring. "Dearest, dearest Martin. You're wankered, babe. Last train to Stockwell fucked off hours ago because it is now piss off o'clock in the morning, and there's a sofa with your exact name on it at my place. Thought you said you wanted some handsome fellow to take you back to his tonight?”Or: The OG Archive crew go drinking, Martin comes out, and gets some well deserved TLC.  In that order.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 48
Kudos: 267





	shoreline

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a break from labouring over the bastard behemoth that is my RQ Big Bang fic.
> 
> Like with my other Ace!Martin fics, this one contains things that I've done my best to represent sensitively and honestly. I've explained the content warnings in greater detail in the end notes, should you want to be prepared. Please let me know if you would like anything tagged or clarified further.
> 
> Additional cws in the end notes.

“S'alright sweetheart,” Sasha says softly into his ear, sounding both incredibly loud and very distant. “ Nearly there. Look, taxi'll be here in a minute, ok, we'll get you home.”

“D'n't wanna go home,” Martin slurs into her shoulder, wavering dangerously towards falling over again. The music from the bar behind them is still dying in his ears, everything else coated in a muffled effect. Someone behind him is arguing with the security on the door. “Boiler's f-fucked an' e's not fixed the fuses yet, an' 's a fuckin' shitty flat.”

He trails off in a nauseous burble, further complaints against his landlord lost in his fervent ongoing mission to not throw up on his shoes. Regretting numerous choices of the evening, but mostly his poor decision to scoff an entire kebab. He is, oddly, very aware of his own fingers, and he keeps worrying that he's dropped his phone as he paws at the brick-shape stuffed into his pocket for the umpteenth time.

“Sash, he can come back to mine,” Tim half-shouts, his hearing ruined by the music, from his scouting position nearer the curb. He's holding his hand up to his eyes in a salute like he's staring onto a far-out horizon. “Be easier.”

“N', 's fine,” Martin protests. He taps his hands clumsily to where he's pocketed his wallet, and drowsily attempts to recall if he's got enough money left on the Oyster card. “I'll – I'm spoilin' the night, I'll go, an' – 's fine, 'onestly, don't worry.”

“Martin, don't be silly!” Tim exclaims chidingly. He spins in a half circle as he turns, trots back to the two of them. His face and throat are flushed and splotchy from the night's libations. “Martin, dearest, dearest Martin. You're wankered, babe. Last train to Stockwell fucked off hours ago because it's piss off o'clock in the morning, and there's a sofa with your exact name on it at my place. Thought you said you wanted some handsome fellow to take you back to his tonight?”

“'s not the same,” Martin grumbles, as Sasha betrays him by agreeing with Tim, fixing her handbag from where it's slipping down her shoulder. He's going to add more, the beer making him bolshy, but the taxi is here, and Sasha is trying to bundle him into the back seats while reassuring the driver that Martin is definitely, one hundred percent, most certainly not going to be sick.

It is a close thing.

Feeling rough and sorry for himself, breathing heavily to stave off the ebbing nausea and barely able to concentrate on the news radio in the taxi which quickly garbles into background sound, Martin suddenly blinks awake. He has enough of his inhibitions left clinging to the inside of him to realise he's been dropping off to sleep on Tim for however long it's taken for the taxi to get to Battersea.

Sasha's been shaking him apparently, and as he rouses himself, she tries to help him out of the taxi with a complicated coaxing pulling motion. Martin's legs are not playing ball with the commands of his body, and it takes both of them to pull him out by his arms, Sasha taking the weight of him as Tim pays the driver, and sucks in a long breath of fresh night air. He pats around for his house keys in the dim street light.

It takes him two or three tries to get the key in the lock, but he opens the door with a triumphant cheer.

“Welcome to Castle Von Stoker!” he announces grandly, before he nearly brains himself tripping over the welcome mat.

“Sash,” Martin breathes out, hardly focusing on what's happening. She smells of oranges, does she know that? Some fruity thing she's been drinking all night. He'd tried some, found it over-sweet, tacky on his tongue. “Sash.”

“Nearly there, Martin, come on.”

She gets him into the stubby hallway, and Martin nearly kicks over the umbrella stand as he tries to turn. The floor isn't as flat as it should be, and Martin squeezes his eyes closed and breathes deeply for a few seconds.

“Should I...?” he starts, frowning as he puts the puzzle pieces of his sentence together. “ Should – My shoes?”

“Leave them on, Marto!” he thinks he hears Tim's singsong voice from up ahead. Martin does look up but his surroundings swim again. “We don't stand on ceremony here! No ceremonies allowed!”

“Sash,” he mumbles, more insistent now. “Sash, 'm gonna be sick.”

“ _Shit,_ ” he hears. It's as though he's been sped up in one of those blearily disorientating science fiction films. Sasha herds him into the bathroom rapid-time almost before he knows he's moved, gets his head over the bowl and manages to pull his dance-greasy hair back from his face before that kebab finally makes its reappearance.

It is neither an attractive nor a dignified way to end the evening.

Martin spends the next several minutes emotionally cartwheeling between feeling incredibly sorry for himself, beating himself up over being such a nuisance, of needing to be taken care of like this, and wondering how inappropriate it would be to tell Sasha how nice it is, the way she's rubbing his back and reassuring him. She's massaging little circles at the top of his spine, spouting a constant stream of comforting nonsense, even as Martin coughs and groans and goes through the motions of feeling genuinely wretched.

His knees are going cold on the bathroom tile. Dizzy and hollow-stomached, he sits back woozily onto his haunches.

“There you are, sweetheart, s'alright, you're doing alright. Bet you feel better now, huh?”

“You alive there, big man?” he hears Tim's voice, his own echoing grunt as reply.

Sasha's hand is stroking his hair.

“Did you get him some – ah that's perfect,” Sasha says, and then he's being handed a mug of water which he dutifully drinks. “Not too fast, just little sips, yeah?”

Martin's ears are starting to burn with an shamed heat.

“'m so sorry,” He says miserably, a bit teary and trying not to embarrass himself further. “ y'r bein' s'nice to me.”

Sasha shushes him.

“You'd do the same for us, now stop that,” she replies. “Remember you carried me home that time, all the way out to Haringey, when I'd lost my shoes?”

“Like a little drunken backpack,” Tim pipes up.

“Y'r so nice to me,” Martin sniffles again, his thoughts cycling. He takes another sip of water and feels stupid and drunk and needy. “'m sorry.”

“No need to apologise, sweetheart.”

Martin doesn't believe it, but Sasha's hand cards so carefully through his hair he allows himself to be lulled into a regretful silence.

“Come on,” Tim breaks the quiet. “We'll get you to bed and you'll feel loads better.”

“Jus' – I'll b'fine here.”

“Martin, this is the bathroom, you can't sleep here.”

“Where's the sofa?” Sasha asks. She's pulling Martin up and standing, flushing the toilet and washing both of their hands at the sink. “Tim, you got a spare toothbrush?”

“Er, here,” Tim opens a few cabinets loudly, clashing them shut before he finds the unopened single toothbrush. Sasha gets the plastic wrapper off and passes it to Martin.

“You'll feel better after you've brushed your teeth,” she says. “He'll be alright on the sofa, Tim, yeah?”

“Ah. Thing is...”

“Tell me you have a sofa.”

“Of course I have a sofa.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“'ll take th'sofa, s'no bother,” Martin adds to the conversation, his mouth full of toothbrush.

“I know you would, big man,” Tim says kindly. “But I may have underestimated how much of you we'll be able to fit on it.”

Martin's balance teeters. He blinks slowly.

“ 's fine,” he says again.

“Look, I'll go change my sheets, then you and Martin can take the bed.”

“I'm fine with the sofa,” Sasha says.

“Let me be a gentleman, huh? Astonishingly, I'm way less drunk than the both of you.”

“I'm not drunk!”

“Sash, you're wobbling. You're a wobbler. You've been stroking Martin's hair for like ten minutes.”

“I don't mind,” Martin slurs as he finishes with the toothbrush, “ 's nice.”

“I'll go sort the bed,” Tim says decisively. “ Five minutes. Living room's on the left. You crazy kids don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

Martin blinks, and wavers and blinks again, and then all of a sudden he appears to have moved to the compact living room. Compared to Martin's battered furniture collection and scavenged decorations from charity shops, it's all very modern. Too much glass. Sasha's put a bucket by his feet, and she's pressing another water into his hand before she sits down next to him on the slick leather sofa, drawing her legs up under her and resting against his side.

Martin feels not a little delirious.

All the attention tonight, it's been a lot.

Christ, he's drunk.

“You're so cool,” he says, hoping desperately that he's not slurring too much. “Had'a, had a great night.”

“Me too,” Sasha says. She's firebrand warm next to him, the entire side of her leaned up against his.

Martin gets distracted by the beaded bracelets on her wrist, and prods them to hear them jingle and clack. His thoughts feel distinctly pickled.

“Y'r so cool,” he repeats. “Dunno how y' do it. 's amazing.”

“Do what?”

Martin has forgotten exactly what he was going to say. He hums as an answer and pokes at Sasha's socks, patterned in blue, white and pink flags, a small worn hole near the toe through which he can see her nail varnish.

“Y' got a hole,” he says.

“Had these for years, no wonder.”

“I c'n – I can darn them. For you. 'm good at darning.”

“That would be nice. How much d'you want for it?”

“S'nothing. Free f' friends.”

“That's really kind of you. Thanks.”

The two of them lapse into a sleepy silence.

“You gonna text him then?”

“What?”

Sasha gestures with her brightly painted nails at his arm. The ballpoint scrawled number still mostly visible above his wrist.

“The _guy_. The Latino man-bear you were dancing with all night.”

“Oh.” Something fizzes flat at the bottom of Martin's stomach. He shakes his head. “Pro'lly not.”

“Aw, how come?”

“ e's pro'lly not interested,” he says lamely. He wishes Sasha would change the subject. The spotlight feels too harsh on him.

“That man thought you were a goddamn _meal_ , Martin, me and Tim were watching. 'course he's interested! You won't know, less you give it a go. ”

Martin squirms and shakes his head. His head feels sludgy, like drying concrete.

“N',” he says again. “No, cuz, cuz if I text him, th-then maybe, he'll – what if he wants a date, or summin'?” He blinks heavily, trails off, swallows. “'s better if I jus' – I won't text him.”

Sasha's ringed hand finds his. Martin might start shaking out of his skin in a minute.

“Dates suck, huh?” she says sympathetically, but Martin's shaking his head again like a dog shedding water.

“I like dates,” he mumbles. “I like dates. B-but then there's dates and then there's another date, then 'nother, an' then people always want to – afterwards... a-and it makes them happy, a-and they wouldn't _make_ you, but it's obvious what they want, cuz, cuz it's natural, right, s'normal, b-but you can't exactly..... 's not easy to pretend, wi' that sort of thing, an', an' I don't like it, so I don't do the right thing, o-or I do summin' wrong, or not enough and then they get fed up, or take it personal....an' it's not, isn't them, it's me, summin' wrong with me.”

“Martin,” Sasha says after a moment. “Slow down, huh, sweetheart. I'm not following.”

"Doesn't matter.”

“It's clearly important to you,” Sasha says ever so patiently. “Explain it to me, help me understand, ok?”

“I-I don't like it,” Martin insists again, and he knows he's not making sense, but his thoughts loop and swoop closer and it's what he always comes back to, in the end. The air is over-raw on his tongue, and his throat is beginning to thicken, his voice wobbly. “I-I don't, I've never liked.... an' if I go on a date, then – then people expect it, don't they, 'cuz 's normal if you're inna relationship, an', I just, I don't _like_ it.”

“Lemme, let me work this though a sec,” Sasha says. Martin can't meet her eyes and stares at their joined hands instead. “You like dates, but you don't like – after the dates?”

“I try,” Martin croaks. “I really, I try, b-but I don't, w-when they start putting their hands – o-or inviting me back to – to theirs an' that – that always means that they want to – an' I try to go along with it b-because I should like it, and maybe it won't be so bad, but it always, always makes me feel – an' and I don't know how to _fix it_ and I – ”

“ _Martin,_ ” Sasha's arms are the tightest things he knows. He folds over into her grip and sniffs and shakes and wonders why it's all so hard to talk about. “Martin, love, it's – oh, sweetheart. It's OK. You don't – There's nothing to fix. Listen, love, there's nothing wrong with you. You don't have to like all the – the physical stuff, that's what you're saying, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Martin whispers into Sasha's shoulder, so quiet and shamefaced. Her hand is back in his hair, and she doesn't, she doesn't sound confused by his confession, doesn't question it any further. Her hand is ever so gentle.

“There's, sweetheart, there's a name for that. There's other people out there, it's – it's OK if you don't like it, no one should make you if you don't want to.”

Martin crumbles like drywall. Sasha bundles him into her arms, rocking him as his breath hitches, repeating the same, and he doesn't know how much he believes it, too drunk to do more than tear up and hope desperately that she's right.

“I'll show you some websites,” Sasha murmurs. “Yeah? You get a funky little flag and everything. We'll look tomorrow.”

Martin nods and mumbles something that might be agreement and wonders if it really can all be that easy.

There's footsteps coming back into the room. Martin sits up hurriedly, wipes his sleeve across his red and puffy eyes, clears his throat and attempts to make himself presentable.

“You OK there, big guy?” Tim asks gently.

Martin nods, not trusting his voice. Tim doesn't press and Martin is overwhelmingly grateful. He doesn't think he has the words for more tonight.

“Right,” Sasha fails to stifle a wide yawn. “Bed.”

She presses her lips to Martin's temple faintly. Gives his hand a final squeeze.

“You're alright, sweetheart,” she repeats again. “Nothing about you needs fixing, you're perfect as is , yeah?”

Her lips leave a waxy imprint of the colour. Martin doesn't rub it away.

“I'll get him to bed?” Tim offers. He's changed into a loose t-shirt and sweatpants. “Sheets are all sorted an' everything. Got you out my fancy sheets, you hear that, Marto?”

“My hero,” Martin tries for a small grateful smile. He clears his throat, shaking away the conversation, storing the small light it left him with away in his chest to study privately and hopefully later.

“Grab the bucket and take it in with you, will you?” Sasha asks as she stands, somehow less stable on flat ground than she was in heels. Martin, wanting to follow her up, gives a bit of a wobble like a tipsy statue, but only succeeds in sinking back into the sofa.

It is a very comfy sofa, and his body has puddled limbless and drained. His eyelids start to droop.

“He been sick again?” he hears Tim ask.

“No. Bring it in case. Think he'll be alright though.”

Martin feels his arm being manoeuvred around Tim's neck.

“Right, let's get you to bed, huh?”

Getting Martin from slouched and sinking to an approximation of standing is not an easy job, but with a bit of yanking and coaxing and straining, Martin is leaning heavily onto Tim as he stands and sways like a belligerent bowling pin.

Tim has gone flushed with exertion, and he attempts to establish a sort of sturdy equilibrium as Martin droops over him like a particularly bowed willow tree, nearly dwarfing Tim's shorter frame.

“Oof,” he says as he has to adjust his stance to maintain balance, apparently having kept up a running commentary throughout proceedings. “Built like a brick house, our Martin is. Stand a little straighter will you, there's a good man.”

“Played rugby at school,” Martin mumbles. He feels his cheeks rush a little pink. He quite likes the sound of that, being someone's Martin.

“Bet you did,” Tim grunts as they laboriously take a step by step approach to transitioning from living room to bedroom. “Bet you've got some secret rugby muscles under all those jumpers of yours. We'll go out sometime, deck you in something a bit less grandfatherly, sure we can attract all the boys.”

“I've got one right here,” Martin replies, staring resolutely at his own feet as he wills them to shuffle along. He misjudges the positioning as he lurches forward, but Tim expertly reigns him back in.

“Got you.” His voice has dropped from grand and joking to a lighter softness, brimmed with fondness. “I've always got you, Martin, don't worry.”

“Y'r a big ol' softie,” Martin's voice stumbles out from somewhere in his chest. “Not – not foolin' anyone.”

“What can I say? You've caught me in the act.”

“I'll keep – y'r, your secret's safe with me.”

“You're too kind.” They do a precarious ninety degree turn and then Tim throws his arm out dramatically. “Ta da. Your boudoir, Monsieur.”

Tim's room has an aesthetic right out of a glossy catalogue. Minimalist, populated with blocky, bold colours that make the space seem stretched and sleek and weirdly un-lived in. Martin squints around, trying to look for some more personal touches on the basic shelves, the top of the bedside table. His own room, cramped and chilly as it is, is crushed together busily with an odds and sods collection of notebooks and pop culture figurines and books. Tim doesn't have anything like that.

For some reason, it makes Martin sad.

Tim deposits Martin on the bed as gently as he's able. Martin doesn't exactly drop like a felled tree, but his travel from horizontal to vertical is not the most graceful.

His face squashes into the softest pillows he's ever felt. He closes his eyes, humming sleepily.

“Ah ah ah, now hold your horses. Shoes.”

“Oh,” Martin grunts, and blearily attempts to swing himself back up to grab at his feet. Tim helps him to sitting over the side, legs trailing over.

“Gimme your foot, I'll do it.”

Martin does as he's bid as Tim wrestles off his shoes, only half-bothering with the laces. He sits slumped, wriggling his socked toes, and struggling to keep his eyes open as Tim clatters around, opening drawers, before pressing something into Martin's hands.

“You gotta do this bit yourself, OK?” Tim says. “Got some pyjama shorts that should mostly fit, an' they'll be better than sleeping in your jeans. I'm gonna leave you sort yourself out, but I'll be right outside, kay?”

Martin nods slowly, and Tim leaves the room, the catch clicking behind him. It takes bit of fumbling and kicking himself out of the jeans that seem to cling stubbornly to his legs, but within a few minutes, he's managed to get himself decent enough, slapdash-folded his jeans into something almost neat and put them on the seat of Tim's desk chair. Precisely and carefully, he lines up his wallet, watch and glasses on the nearby desk to find easier in the morning. He winces as he squints and reads his watch face. Later morning rather.

Tim knocks with a “you still breathing in there?” and Martin grunts an agreement. He enters, bringing in a scent cloud of mint and over-perfumed face-wash, and belly flops down on the bed on top of the covers next to Martin.

“ _Fuck,_ I'm knackered,” he says, wriggling until he's twisted onto his side. “You feelin' better?”

He looks critically over Martin.

“Think so,” Martin replies, as close to a yes as he is capable of giving. He sighs and rubs at his eyes. “Th' kebab was a shit idea.”

“Not one of my best, I'll admit. I'm hoping I don't get reminded of it tomorrow...What time's it?”

Martin tells him. Tim curses.

“Good thing it's a Saturday. Got some sausages in the fridge, I think. We could have a fry up.”

“Urghhh,” Martin decides to follow Tim's example and lies back, staring at the unremarkable white of the ceiling. “Don't talk 'bout food.”

“Ha. Sorry.”

“Where's – where's Sasha?”

“Taking off her makeup. It's a whole routine. She'll be a while.”

“Sasha's the best.” Martin feels the need to mumble into the fabric of his pillow. If anything, tonight has confirmed his suspicions that Sasha is effortlessly one of the coolest people he knows.

“Er – and what about me?”

Martin snorts at overwrought tone of voice.

“You're OK,” he says, knowing it'll make Tim laugh. It does.

“Bitch, I'm fabulous and you know it.” Tim shuffles further into the voluminous duvet. “Bugger. 'should get up. Sofa's waiting.”

“Th's enough room,” Martin says, yawning wide and loud. “Stay. Y' don't need to go.”

“I'll stay for a bit,” Tim replies, and that's how Martin knows he's won.

Martin gets himself in the bed properly and under the covers. After a bit of fussing, he gets Tim to do the same on the other side.

He's nearly dozed off when he hears a bleary, sleep-tinted, softer:

“You had a good night though?”

“Yeah. 's nice, going out with th' two of you.”

“Even if dearest darling Jon wasn't there?”

Tim makes kissy noises. Martin kicks him in the leg and tells him to fuck off.

“Look at my boys all cuddled up together!” comes a tired voice from the door as Sasha pads into the room. Martin spares her a cross-eyed glance, unwilling to separate his face from the pillow too much, and sees she's plaited her hair in a three-stranded column twisting down her back, only mildly unevenly considering how much she's had to drink, and has changed into what is apparently another one of Tim's numerous pyjama shorts and a Ramones t-shirt.

“I'm being a gentleman,” Tim defends jokingly from the other side of the bed. He looks half subsumed under the covers. “No cuddles, not even a peck goodnight. Martin won't put out till I buy him dinner and roses on our third date.”

“'m not puttin' out on any dates,” Martin clarifies into his pillow. It seems much easier to say here, surrounded by people he knows love him regardless. “Me 'n Sasha, we talked 'bout it. I'm not a put-outer. Put-out-ee. Whatever's't called.”

“Ah,” Tim replies after a second of parsing Martin's babbling. “I stand corrected, my bad. All this time immune to my wiles.”

"Y've got no wiles.”

“I have so, you just don't notice them. Sash, tell him I've wiles.”

“I mean, hardly.”

“Traitor. Ganged up on by the both of you, well I never.”

“Oh hush and scooch over, will you. I want to go to bed.”

“No. No, I've no _wiles._ Go scooch with Martin.”

“You absolute child,” Sasha says with a smile, but she flicks off the bedroom light, and gets into bed next to Martin, who has somehow rolled himself into the dead centre of the mattress. Despite the bed's pretensions to a king size, it's a close fit with the three of them, and Martin gets a faceful of Sasha's hair as she worms around and tries to get comfortable.

“Glasses, babe,” Tim murmurs in the darkness.

“Ah. Yeah. Thanks.”

There's a clatter by the night stand before Sasha settles back down and Martin moves so she has more space on the pillow. Tim flips onto his back, a close line of heat next to Martin.

Martin feels dazedly warm and safe as Sasha rearranges her legs to half tangle near his, as Tim burrows and they form a tighter unit in the limited bed space.

“You got 'nough space, Martin?”

“Yeah, 's fine.”

“I don't get a goodnight kiss, then Timothy?” Sasha teases to the moon-dim dark of the room.

“There's a mountain of Martin in the way,” Tim pokes him in the shoulder half-heartedly. “Martin, 's your job.”

“Mwah,” Martin says flatly and sleepily to the ceiling, making no effort to move, and Sasha snorts a giggle.

“Absolutely no points, complete fail of a kiss.”

Martin feels a smile unfurling on his face. The silence is growing drowsy and senseless. Tim's breathing is getting heavy.

“Got some sausages f' breakfast tomorrow," he mumbles. "We should have a massive fry up.”

“Tim, go to _sleep._ ”

Martin falls asleep to the bracketing sound of their sleepy bickering.

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings:  
> \-- emetophobia - vague descriptions of feeling/being sick  
> \-- drunken-ness and heavy drinking  
> \-- coming out  
> \-- internalised acephobia, and lack of knowledge surrounding asexuality leading to distress, self-esteem issues and an unhealthy attitude towards sex.  
> \-- I haven't tagged as dubcon, but there is an implication that a character who does not like sex has made themselves have sex in the past, despite knowing they don't enjoy it. 
> 
> Headcanons that didn't make it into the actual fic:  
> \-- Sasha is one of those drunken bathroom oracles who gives you grand life advice while comforting you about a break-up, but who is still weirdly sober enough to be amazing at pool if challenged.  
> \--Tim's fashion is either 'anything I own I will wear in any combination in a fabulous but thoughtless concoction' or 'I saw a Top Man mannequin wear it so I bought the whole outfit' and nothing in between. He always wears the daft little live show cap. He probably owns like ten of them.  
> \-- Martin starts off a drinking night as a chatty drunk, yo-yos into a weepy drunk, and then freefalls without warning into a sleepy drunk in that particular order. 
> 
> While this is tagged as fluff and gen (because I really wanted to write more of Martin+Sasha's friendship), feel free to take it as the pre-OT4 fic it was always spiritually.


End file.
